


blurry eyes on a friday night

by orionseye



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Canon Rewrite, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, henry's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionseye/pseuds/orionseye
Summary: Parties were never really his scene, not unless he was very thoroughly drunk, completely disconnected from the delicate sensibilities he was supposed to body as an heir to the throne. A dance floor, a bar, hundreds of people: a scene made for those with energy to feed off of, with enough charisma to spare. A scene made for Alex. He wonders absently, what he did in a past life to deserve being dragged across the Atlantic to an unrequited love’s glorified frat party.When Henry was invited to the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala, he had second thoughts about going, but the next thing he knew he’s on a plane, and then very quickly at the biggest event of the year, drink in hand, completely alone.We all know Alex’s POV of this night… but what was going through Henry’s mind?
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Percy "Pez" Okonjo, June Claremont-Diaz/Percy "Pez" Okonjo
Comments: 25
Kudos: 152





	blurry eyes on a friday night

**Author's Note:**

> aaa this is my first fic ever so please be kind :,) id love to know what you think ! i love this book so much it's been a major comfort read for me, especially with the recent election in the states. henry owns my heart and soul. this is for him <3
> 
> \- ori

Henry would rather be just about anywhere than a private jet today. It’s T-minus four hours until he’s at the biggest party of the year, the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala, and somewhere between the sleep deprivation and airsickness, a steady set of jitters keep him unable to focus on the worn copy of Sense and Sensibility sat in his lap. The invite to the gala arrived in his personal mail at Kensington not even two weeks ago, and the days since have been a nauseating blur of thinking too much about it and trying not to. The last time he’d seen Alex Claremont-Diaz was months ago, a one-off weekend visit to England to make up for the seventy five grand the First Son now owes the crown for very politely shoving the two of them into a wedding cake. Since then, Alex’s fiery hatred for him subdued, at least slightly, enough for him to poke fun at his public appearances, to snark his way through witty text conversations. Enough for him to call Henry at half past two in the morning to talk about Christmas related family squabbles. 

That phone call was enough to carry Henry through two and a half sleepless nights; he drank one too many cups of coffee at three am trying to figure out why Alex would talk to him out of all people, what it meant to him. On the third night he gave up trying to figure out exactly what happened that evening, and just savoured the fact that maybe their easing of tensions could make this New Year’s party slightly easier to bear. Henry’s got a plus one, his best friend Pez, who’s seated comfortably at his left, hair dyed a pastel pink for the occasion, but apart from him, he’s bound to be alone the rest of the night. Parties were never really his scene, not unless he was very thoroughly drunk, completely disconnected from the delicate sensibilities he was supposed to body as an heir to the throne. A dance floor, a bar, hundreds of people: a scene made for those with energy to feed off of, with enough charisma to spare. A scene made for Alex. He wonders absently, what he did in a past life to deserve being dragged across the Atlantic to an unrequited love’s glorified frat party.

A buzz from his phone breaks his cloudy mood. The notification reads:

Alex 🤠

ATTN: will be wearing a burgundy velvet suit tonight. please do not attempt to steal my shine. you will fail and i will be embarrassed for you.

Henry texts back seconds later. 

Wouldn’t dream of it.

***

From the moment they land, everything speeds up, and he and Pez are wrangled through a private airstrip into their outfits for the night: Pez in a floral bomber jacket, Henry in a navy suit, with a complimentary copper tie. They make it to the party at around nine, and he finds themselves immediately surrounded by dozens. A preliminary scan of the crowd shows what Henry expected after hours of anxiously stalking through hashtags from parties of years past, a mix of strategic political invites, White House interns, and American celebrities he can just barely recognize. He’s feeling overwhelmed, but Pez manages to miraculously find June, giggling with a glass of champagne in hand. She smiles warmly, and extends a well manicured hand over to Henry, nails a deep blue to match her dress. He takes it gladly, and next thing he knows, the three of them are quickly weaving their way through the crowd, all the way to the other side of the room towards...

“Incoming!” June yells, yanking Henry and Pez towards her. And there Alex is, in the flesh. He looks handsome as ever, in a burgundy suit as promised. His hair is tousled, his smile infectious, and Henry can’t help but grin back when they make eye contact. The knot that’s been growing for days in his chest tightens a bit, and he tugs at Pez’s arm slightly, a silent plea for help. The dissonance of Alex past and Alex present, what was and what is, sits heavy in the air until Alex takes half a step forward and breaks the silence.

“Nice tie,” he says mockingly.

“Thought I might be escorted off the premises for anything less exciting.”

“And who is this?” June interrupts from Alex’s side, turning towards Henry.

“Ah yes, you’ve not officially met, have you? June, Alex, this is my best mate, Percy Okonjo.”

“Pez, like the sweets,” Pez says cheerfully, extending his hand to Alex. He turns to June, eyes growing brighter, grin spreading. “Please do smack me if this is out of line, but you are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen in my life, and I would like to procure for you the most lavish drink in this establishment if you will let me.”

“Uh,” Alex says.

“You’re a charmer,” June says, smiling indulgently.

“And you are a goddess.”

And then they’ve disappeared into the crowd, Pez spinning June in a pirouette on the way to the bar. Alex’s smile has become a reserved sort of proud, and Henry understands Alex a bit better in that moment. He can tell by the fondness rounding the corners of Alex’s eyes that he wants nothing more for June than for her to be happy, with whoever it may be, whatever it may cost. She’s one of his favorite people; he’d give the world for her.

He really wishes Alex would stop proving himself to be everything Henry suspected he was when they first met years ago at the Olympics. Every moment since they’ve exchanged numbers, the character he had cut out of Alex in his mind gets sharper, clearer, something warm and enveloping and hard to shake off. It doesn’t help Henry’s train of thought that Alex shoots him with a smirk the second their friends are out of sight. He pokes the silence again, just to get the thought out of his mind.

“That man has been begging me to introduce him to your sister since the wedding,” he says.

“Seriously?”

“We’ve probably just saved him a tremendous amount of money. He was going to start pricing skywriters soon.”

Alex tosses his head back and laughs, a real, genuine laugh, and Henry can’t help but watch. There’s something different about the way he holds himself today, in the set of his shoulders. Alex is in his element here, and you can tell he’s open, responsive, confident. He’s so alive, and Henry feels something catch in his throat thinking about it.

“Well, come on,” Alex says. “I’m already two whiskeys in. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

They make their way through the crowded room, and he can feel conversations dropping, eyes staring. He’s about to feel self-conscious before he decides, suddenly, that he’s not going to allow that. If Henry tries hard enough, maybe drinks enough, he can pretend that people don’t see a rich, untouchable fantasy that he never really was when they look at him, and that they aren’t the heartthrobs and representatives of their respective countries. Tonight they’re just Alex and Henry, two attractive, confident, twenty-somethings, pressed shoulder to shoulder, ordering a round of drinks for everyone at the bar. Alex laughs his way through an introduction to some White House interns, and Henry tries to carefully conceal his bemusement behind two whiskeys and a placid smile. It gets harder to appear neutral as the night passes though, watching Alex mingle and dance with almost everyone he manages to. The strobe lighting on the dance floor paints him in fluorescent shades of pink and blue as he flirts with some American actress of sorts. Alex is all high cheekbones and a ridiculous amount of charm, and Henry isn’t quite drunk enough to watch this, even from afar, so he refills his champagne glass and tries to look like he’s enjoying himself. The band breaks off, and a DJ takes over, speakers blaring, and all of a sudden, Henry is officially out of his comfort zone. He watches friends and acquaintances pair up, dancing to the horrible pop song playing, and he almost thinks he’s lost everyone he knows. That’s when Alex appears out of nowhere, a beautiful sore thumb in a disheveled crowd of smudged mascara and askew suits. Apparently he shook off the girl from before. 

“You don’t dance?” he says. The loose confidence from earlier that night has loosened even further, and Henry recognizes that Alex is very visibly drunk. His hips are moving, and Henry tries very hard to gain some composure. 

“No, I do,” He retorts, “It’s just, the family-mandated ballroom dancing lessons didn’t exactly cover this?”

“C’mon, it’s, like, in the hips. You have to loosen up.” 

Alex reaches down and puts both hands on Henry’s hips, and he feels the point of contact like static electricity. He tenses under the touch. 

“That’s the opposite of what I said.”

His heart skips a beat, Alex’s hands still on his hips.

“Alex, I don’t—”

“Here,” Alex says now, pulling his hands back, dancing by himself, “watch me.”

With a grave gulp of champagne, Henry says, “I am.”

The song crossfades into another, a horrible shouty hip-hop one he doesn’t recognize. 

“Shut up,” Alex yells, cutting off the sentence Henry started, “shut your dumb face, this is my shit!” Alex throws his hands up in the air as he stares at him blankly, and around them, people start cheering too.

“Did you seriously never go to an awkward middle school dance and watch a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song?”

Henry’s eyes widen, and he grips his champagne flute tighter.

“You absolutely must know I did not.”

Alex flails one arm out and snatches Nora from a nearby huddle, where she’s been flirting with the same girl Alex was with earlier. Henry didn’t know she liked girls, and somewhere through the alcohol haze he makes a mental note to come back to later: _Nora Holleran, bisexual tendencies._

“Nora! Nora! Henry has never watched a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song!” Alex shouts. 

“What?” she shouts back.

“Please tell me nobody is going to dry hump me,” Henry says.

“Oh my God, Henry,” Alex yells, grabbing him closer by one of the lapels of his suit. He’s an inch from Henry’s face now, and his breath smells like champagne. “You have to dance. You have to dance. You need to understand this formative American coming-of-age experience!” Nora grabs Alex, pulling him off of Henry. She spins him around and places her hands on his waist, and starts grinding behind him. Alex whoops in approval and Nora laughs and the crowd is moving and jumping, and Henry is so out of his comfort zone. All he manages to do is ask: “Did that man just say ‘sweat drop down my balls’?”

It’s abhorrent, to say the least—Nora against Alex’s back, sweat dripping down his brow, their bodies pushing together. Henry spots Pez bending over and touching his toes out of the corner of his eye and he doesn’t ask or want to know. The crowd is too much for him, and he’s shocked and confused all at once, but Alex is looking at him now, and he’s still looking at him when he takes a shot off a passing tray and drinks it with little trepidation. He pouts his lips and shakes his ass, and Henry smiles and bops his head a little, tries to tunnel his vision, the spark in his chest, so it’s just Alex and him.

“Fuck it up, vato!” Alex yells, and Henry laughs despite himself. He even gives his hips a little shake.

From there, Alex and Henry and their assortment of friends manage to find their rhythm. They dance and laugh, lights and music as bright and as loud as Henry had ever seen them. There’s confetti, a navy and gold color scheme, and it’s everywhere, it’s in his eyes and stuck to the bottom of his shoes and it’s in Alex’s hair. They get more drinks—Henry starts drinking directly from a bottle of Moët & Chandon. His feelings overtake logic, and his willingness to dance becomes directly proportionate to the spark of Alex’s skin against his, the proximity of their hands, the way he moves with Nora. A loose curl falls onto Alex’s forehead and Henry gets up close and pushes it back. He knows he shouldn’t let himself feel whatever he's feeling, but he’s so drunk, and the champagne keeps fizzing, and the music keeps playing, and Alex keeps looking at him over everyone else, so he does anyways.

They all huddle up at 11:59 for the countdown, eyes blurry and arms around one another. Alex pulls his gaze away from Henry for the first time in hours, as Nora screams in his ear and slings her arm around his neck. The clock hits midnight, and Alex kisses her sloppily, laughing through it. 

And Henry is, Henry is a lot of things. The hiccuping hope that came from the dancing, the promise Henry found in the glint of mischief in Alex's eyes when he brushed past him, is now nowhere to be found. In its place, the knot in his chest that had slackened over the past few hours reappears, sharper this time, and it's something confused and intrigued and unrightfully jealous, maybe even disappointed. 

When he opens his eyes, he looks right back at Henry, grinning happily, and that’s officially, too much. Henry turns away, from his friends, from Alex, the bastard, and toward the bottle of champagne, from which he takes a hearty swig before disappearing into the crowd. He searches for a door, and swiftly falls out of the warmth and light of the party into the damp snow-dusted gardens behind the White House.

He stumbles down the stairs, onto the lawn, expensive leather loafers not much of a deterrent to the snow, towards a linden tree. He leans his back against it. Deep breaths, he thinks to himself.

When Henry was fourteen, he had his first crush. Apart from Pez, the isolation being a royal brought followed him all the way to school, all the way through his adolescence. Whispers about him, his family, they crept around corners, found their way into graffiti: in bathroom stalls, in history textbooks. Everyone wanted to be friends with the Prince of England in theory, but knowing him in practice proved to be different entirely. It was his second year at Eton College, and a boy his age stumbled his way into his study group. Maybe it was the forced proximity; they were the only second years taking Calculus, or maybe it was his eyes, an almond shape, a warm mahogany. They would crinkle in the corners when Henry would crack a joke, wet and inviting, asking, begging Henry to step an inch closer, eyelashes fluttering shut when he leaned in the one night…

Henry had always hated the paperwork that came with being an heir to the throne, but sometimes he liked knowing his secrets were safe, that a kiss could stay just a kiss, a mistake he could blame on a lack of sleep and blurry eyes on a Friday night. So his secret stayed just that, a secret, even when he was seventeen and he hooked up with a friend of his brother’s, too young, yet desperate to be wanted regardless. His secret was just as concealed as it always was when he made a fool of himself the first time he met Alex, and every time he’s made a fool of himself since. 

It’s times like this that Henry wishes he had the guts to just say it, put his queerness out into the open, and then forget about it.

Maybe Alex would stop leading him on if he knew Henry was gay. 

Maybe he’d be more straightforward about his feelings. 

Either way, Henry thinks, taking a swig from the half empty bottle of champagne he carried with him all the way out to the garden, it would never be a possibility. Henry is Henry, His Royal Highness, Prince of Wales, and not just a drunk twenty-something with the most impossibly, confusing feelings about his arch-rival turned friend. It’ll never be that simple. 

But, oh. 

Alex has the same brown eyes the first boy that broke his heart had, with none of the adolescent awkwardness; just golden-brown skin, smooth and tanned, freckled ever so slightly on his cheeks, and messy curls and charismatic American grins. Nothing ever seems to be too much for Alex. Even in a crowd like the one tonight, he feeds off of the energy, the light in his eyes never dimming, not even for a second. Henry wishes they could share, that Alex could take everything Henry can’t handle. Out of the two of them, he seems much more suited for royalty. 

A sound from behind him breaks the silence. He whips his head around to see no one other than Alex himself, stumbling his way towards Henry. Shit, he thinks.

“What’re you doing out here?” Alex says, standing beside him now.

Henry realizes now just how crossed his vision has gone. He tries to straighten it out, to look at Alex with dignity. His slight lean to the left, however, gives away any chance for collectedness he may be able to regain.

“Looking for Orion,” Henry lies.

Alex huffs a laugh, looking up to the sky, which Henry is now realizing is far too cloudy for stargazing.

“You must be really bored with the commoners to come out here and stare at the clouds.”

“’m not bored,” Henry mumbles. “What are you doing out here? Doesn’t America’s golden boy have some swooning crowds to beguile?”

“Says Prince fucking Charming,” Alex answers, smirking.

Henry pulls a face up at the clouds. “Hardly.”

His knuckle brushes the back of Alex’s hand involuntarily, a little zip of warmth. Blood rushes to Henry’s ears when he notices Alex is studying him, and he makes a concerning effort to look away. The garden is quiet except for the two of them, their gentle breathing. 

“You didn’t really answer my question, though,” Alex notes.

Henry groans, rubbing a hand across his face. “You can’t ever leave well enough alone, can you?” He leans his head back. “Sometimes it gets a bit … much.”

Alex keeps looking at him. He keeps trying not to look back. That’s when he shifts, leaning back against the tree too. Henry’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile he tries to swallow down. Their shoulders are pressed together, and Henry tries to sap some of Alex’s easy confidence out of it.

“D’you ever wonder,” he says slowly, “what it’s like to be some anonymous person out in the world?”

Alex frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Just, you know,” Henry says. “If your mum weren’t the president and you were just a normal bloke living a normal life, what things might be like? What you’d be doing instead?”

“Ah,” Alex says, considering. He stretches one arm out in front of him, makes a dismissive gesture with a flick of his wrist. “Well, I mean, obviously I’d be a model. I’ve been on the cover of Teen Vogue twice. These genetics transcend all circumstance.” Henry rolls his eyes again. 

“What about you?”

Henry shakes his head. “I’d be a writer.”

Alex gives a little laugh. “Can’t you do that?”

“Not exactly seen as a worthwhile pursuit for a man in line for the throne, scribbling verses about quarter-life angst,” Henry says dryly. “Besides, the traditional family career track is military, so that’s about it, isn’t it?”

He bites his lip, and before he can think about it, says, “I’d date more, probably, as well.”

Alex can’t help laughing again. “Right, because it’s so hard to get a date when you’re a prince.”

Henry finally looks back down to Alex. “You’d be surprised.”

“How? You’re not exactly lacking for options.”

Henry keeps looking at him.

He’s too far gone to take it back by now. 

“The options I’d like…” he says, dragging the words out, trying to find how to phrase it, “They don’t quite seem to be options at all.”

Alex blinks. “What?”

“I’m saying that I have … people … who interest me,” Henry says, turning his body toward Alex now, trying to show that he means something. 

_It’s you, you idiot._

“But I shouldn’t pursue them. At least not in my position.”

Alex stares at him blankly. For half a second, Henry thinks he sees something register behind his eyes, until Alex opens his mouth again.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really, really don’t.”

Henry’s whole face grimaces in frustration, his eyes casting skyward, searching for help from an uncaring universe. He’s so drunk, and this whole situation is so stupid, and he knew this night would be horrible from the beginning. It’s too much, and he just wants Alex to know. 

If this is going to be the end of them, he’s going to go out with a bang. 

“Christ, you are as thick as it gets,” he says, and he grabs Alex’s face in both hands and kisses him.

For a moment, he’s sure that he’s royally screwed this up the way he’s screwed up almost everything else in his life. Alex stands there, unresponsive, but then he leans in and surprisingly, kisses him back.

His mouth is soft, and Henry can taste champagne on his lips, and underneath the grog from one too many drinks, Henry is freaking the fuck out. He’s kissing Alex Claremont-Diaz, and he’s kissing him back. Henry feels his hands moving before he can think, from Alex’s temples to the back of his neck, his hair, and he kisses and kisses and kisses him, until he makes a noise that breaks the silence and–– 

Just as suddenly, Henry releases him roughly enough that Alex staggers backward, and something between curse and an apology gets tangled on its way out of Henry’s mouth. Alex is standing there eyes wide, mouth ajar ever so slightly.

Before Henry can even think about it, he spins on his heels, crunching off through the snow at double time, rounding the corner, eyes watering. All he wants to do is get away, away, away, away from Alex and his friends and his parties, away from the two pairs of footsteps they left in the snow, away from whatever the hell just happened. He grabs Pez out of the crowd, and tries to figure out what to say, but all that comes out is something between a choke and a laugh. Something shifts in Pez's expression, something gentle and sympathetic in his eyes, and then they’re off, in a black car with tinted windows, driving as fast as they can away from the White House, away from the party. Pez doesn’t ask, he just rests his head on Henry’s shoulder, and Henry’s so grateful he almost starts crying again.


End file.
